The Christmas Megapack

by Reginald Robert

  “Is Peter the oldest?”

  “No; Sarah Maud is the oldest—she helps do the washing; and Peter is the next. He is a dress-maker’s boy.”

  “And which is the pretty little red-haired girl?”

  “That’s Kitty.”

  “And the fat youngster?”

  “Baby Larry.”

  “And that—most freckled one?”

  “Now, don’t laugh—that’s Peoria.”

  “Carol, you are joking.”

  “No, really, Uncle dear. She was born in Peoria; that’s all.”

  “And is the next boy Oshkosh?”

  “No,” laughed Carol, “the others are Susan, and Clement, and Eily, and Cornelius; they all look exactly alike, except that some of them have more freckles than the others.”

  “How did you ever learn all their names?”

  “Why, I have what I call a ‘window-school.’ It is too cold now; but in warm weather I am wheeled out on my balcony, and the Ruggleses climb up and walk along our garden fence, and sit down on the roof of our carriage-house. That brings them quite near, and I tell them stories. On Thanksgiving Day they came up for a few minutes—it was quite warm at eleven o’clock—and we told each other what we had to be thankful for; but they gave such queer answers that Papa had to run away for fear of laughing; and I couldn’t understand them very well. Susan was thankful for ‘trunks,’ of all things in the world; Cornelius, for ‘horse-cars;’ Kitty, for ‘pork steak;’ while Clem, who is very quiet, brightened up when I came to him, and said he was thankful for ‘his lame puppy.’ Wasn’t that pretty?”

  “It might teach some of us a lesson, mightn’t it, little girl?”

  “That’s what Mamma said. Now I’m going to give this whole Christmas to the Ruggleses; and, Uncle Jack, I earned part of the money myself.”

  “You, my bird; how?”

  “Well, you see, it could not be my own, own Christmas if Papa gave me all the money, and I thought to really keep Christ’s birthday I ought to do something of my very own; and so I talked with Mamma. Of course she thought of something lovely; she always does: Mamma’s head is just brimming over with lovely thoughts—all I have to do is ask, and out pops the very one I want. This thought was to let her write down, just as I told her, a description of how a child lived in her own room for three years, and what she did to amuse herself; and we sent it to a magazine and got twenty-five dollars for it. Just think!”

  “Well, well,” cried Uncle Jack, “my little girl a real author! And what are you going to do with this wonderful ‘own’ money of yours?”

  “I shall give the nine Ruggleses a grand Christmas dinner here in this very room—that will be Papa’s contribution—and afterwards a beautiful Christmas tree, fairly blooming with presents—that will be my part; for I have another way of adding to my twenty-five dollars, so that I can buy nearly anything I choose. I should like it very much if you would sit at the head of the table, Uncle Jack, for nobody could ever be frightened of you, you dearest, dearest, dearest thing that ever was! Mamma is going to help us, but Papa and the boys are going to eat together downstairs for fear of making the little Ruggleses shy; and after we’ve had a merry time with the tree we can open my window and all listen together to the music at the evening church-service, if it comes before the children go. I have written a letter to the organist, and asked him if I might have the two songs I like best. Will you see if it is all right?”

  BIRDS’ NEST, DECEMBER 21, 188-.

  DEAR MR. WILKIE,

  I am the little girl who lives next door to the church, and, as I seldom go out, the music on practice days and Sundays is one of my greatest pleasures.

  I want to know if you can have “Carol, brothers, carol,” on Christmas night, and if the boy who sings “My ain countree” so beautifully may please sing that too. I think it is the loveliest thing in the world, but it always makes me cry; doesn’t it you?

  If it isn’t too much trouble, I hope they can sing them both quite early, as after ten o’clock I may be asleep.

  Yours respectfully,

  CAROL BIRD

  P.S.—The reason I like “Carol, brothers, carol,” is because the choir-boys sang it eleven years ago, the morning I was born, and put it into Mamma’s head to call me Carol. She didn’t remember then that my other name would be Bird, because she was half asleep, and could only think of one thing at a time. Donald says if I had been born on the Fourth of July they would have named me “Independence,” or if on the twenty-second of February, “Georgina,” or even “Cherry,” like Cherry in “Martin Chuzzlewit;” but I like my own name and birthday best.

  Yours truly,

  CAROL BIRD

  Uncle Jack thought the letter quite right, and did not even smile at her telling the organist so many family items.

  The days flew by as they always fly in holiday time, and it was Christmas Eve before anybody knew it. The family festival was quiet and very pleasant, but almost overshadowed by the grander preparations for the next day. Carol and Elfrida, her pretty German nurse, had ransacked books, and introduced so many plans, and plays, and customs, and merry-makings from Germany, and Holland, and England, and a dozen other countries, that you would scarcely have known how or where you were keeping Christmas. Even the dog and the cat had enjoyed their celebration under Carol’s direction. Each had a tiny table with a lighted candle in the center, and a bit of Bologna sausage placed very near it; and everybody laughed till the tears stood in their eyes to see Villikins and Dinah struggle to nibble the sausages, and at the same time to evade the candle flame. Villikins barked, and sniffed, and howled in impatience, and after many vain attempts succeeded in dragging off the prize, though he singed his nose in doing it. Dinah, meanwhile, watched him placidly, her delicate nostrils quivering with expectation, and, after all the excitement had subsided, walked with dignity to the table, her beautiful gray satin trail sweeping behind her, and, calmly putting up one velvet paw, drew the sausage gently down, and walked out of the room without turning a hair, so to speak. Elfrida had scattered handfuls of seed over the snow in the garden, that the wild birds might have a comfortable breakfast next morning, and had stuffed bundles of dry grasses in the fireplaces, so that the reindeer of Santa Claus could refresh themselves after their long gallops across country. This was really only done for fun, but it pleased Carol.

  And when, after dinner, the whole family had gone to the church to see the Christmas decorations, Carol limped out on her slender crutches, and with Elfrida’s help, placed all the family boots in a row in the upper hall. That was to keep the dear ones from quarreling all through the year. There were Papa’s stout top boots; Mamma’s pretty buttoned shoes next; then Uncle Jack’s, Donald’s, Paul’s, and Hugh’s; and at the end of the line her own little white worsted slippers. Last, and sweetest of all, like the children in Austria, she put a lighted candle in her window to guide the dear Christ-child, lest he should stumble in the dark night as he passed up the deserted street. This done, she dropped into bed, a rather tired, but very happy Christmas fairy.

  V. SOME OTHER BIRDS ARE TAUGHT TO FLY

  Before the earliest Ruggles could wake and toot his five-cent tin horn, Mrs. Ruggles was up and stirring about the house, for it was a gala day in the family. Gala day! I should think so! Were not her nine “childern” invited to a dinner-party at the great house, and weren’t they going to sit down free and equal with the mightiest in the land? She had been preparing for this grand occasion ever since the receipt of Carol Bird’s invitation, which, by the way, had been speedily enshrined in an old photograph frame and hung under the looking-glass in the most prominent place in the kitchen, where it stared the occasional visitor directly in the eye, and made him livid with envy:

  BIRDS’ NEST,

  December 17, 188-

  DEAR MRS. RUGGLES,

  I am going to have a dinner-party on Christmas Day, and would like to have all your children come. I want them every one, please, from Sarah Maud to Baby Larry.
Mamma says dinner will be at half past five, and the Christmas tree at seven; so you may expect them home at nine o’clock. Wishing you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, I am

  Yours truly,

  CAROL BIRD

  Breakfast was on the table promptly at seven o’clock, and there was very little of it, too; for it was an excellent day for short rations, though Mrs. Ruggles heaved a sigh as she reflected that the boys, with their India-rubber stomachs, would be just as hungry the day after the dinner-party as if they had never had any at all.

  As soon as the scanty meal was over, she announced the plan of the campaign: “Now, Susan, you an’ Kitty wash up the dishes; an’ Peter, can’t yer spread up the beds, so’t I can git ter cuttin’ out Larry’s new suit? I ain’t satisfied with his clo’es, an’ I thought in the night of a way to make him a dress out o’ my old red plaid shawl—kind o’ Scotch style, yer know, with the fringe ’t the bottom.—Eily, you go find the comb and take the snarls out the fringe, that’s a lady! You little young ones clear out from under foot! Clem, you and Con hop into bed with Larry while I wash yer underflannins; ’twon’t take long to dry ’em.—Yes, I know it’s bothersome, buy yer can’t go int’ s’ciety ’thout takin’ some trouble, ’n’ anyhow I couldn’t git round to ’em last night.—Sarah Maud, I think ’twould be perfeckly han’som’ if you ripped them brass buttons off yer uncle’s policeman’s coat ’n’ sewed ’em in a row up the front o’ yer green skirt. Susan, you must iron out yours ’n’ Kitty’s apurns; ’n’ there, I come mighty near forgettin’ Peory’s stockin’s! I counted the whole lot last night when I was washin’ of ’em, ’n’ there ain’t but nineteen anyhow yer fix ’em, ’n’ no nine pairs mates nohow; ’n’ I ain’t goin’ ter have my childern wear odd stockin’s to a dinner-comp’ny, fetched up as I was!—Eily, can’t you run out and ask Mis’ Cullen ter lend me a pair o’ stockin’s for Peory, ’n’ tell her if she will, Peory’ll give Jim half her candy when she gets home. Won’t yer, Peory?”

  Peoria was young and greedy, and thought the remedy so out of all proportion to the disease, that she set up a deafening howl at the projected bargain—a howl so rebellious and so entirely out of season that her mother started in her direction with flashing eye and uplifted hand; but she let it fall suddenly, saying, “No, I vow I won’t lick ye Christmas Day, if yer drive me crazy; but speak up smart, now, ’n’ say whether yer’d ruther give Jim Cullen half yer candy or go bare-legged ter the party?” The matter being put so plainly, Peoria collected her faculties, dried her tears, and chose the lesser evil, Clem having hastened the decision by an affectionate wink, that meant he’d go halves with her on his candy.

  “That’s a lady!” cried her mother. “Now, you young ones that ain’t doin’ nothin’, play all yer want ter before noontime, for after ye git through eatin’ at twelve o’clock me ’n’ Sarah Maud’s goin’ ter give yer sech a washin’ ’n’ combin’ ’n’ dressin’ as yer never had before ’n’ never will agin likely, ’n’ then I’m goin’ to set yer down ’n’ give yer two solid hours trainin’ in manners; ’n’ ’twon’t be no foolin’ neither.”

  “All we’ve got ter do’s go eat!” grumbled Peter.

  “Well, that’s enough,” responded his mother; “there’s more’n one way of eatin’, let me tell yer, ’n’ you’ve got a heap ter learn about it, Peter Ruggles. Land sakes, I wish you childern could see the way I was fetched up to eat. I never took a meal o’ vittles in the kitchen before I married Ruggles; but yer can’t keep up that style with nine young ones ’n’ yer Pa always off ter sea.”

  The big Ruggleses worked so well, and the little Ruggleses kept from “under foot” so successfully, that by one o’clock nine complete toilets were laid out in solemn grandeur on the beds. I say, “complete;” but I do not know whether they would be called so in the best society. The law of compensation had been well applied: he that had necktie had no cuffs; she that had sash had no handkerchief, and vice versa; but they all had shoes and a certain amount of clothing, such as it was, the outside layer being in every case quite above criticism.

  “Now, Sarah Maud,” said Mrs. Ruggles, her face shining with excitement, “everything’s red up an’ we can begin. I’ve got a boiler ’n’ a kettle ’n’ a pot o’ hot water. Peter, you go into the back bedroom, ’n’ I’ll take Susan, Kitty, Peory, ’n’ Cornelius; ’n’ Sarah Maud, you take Clem, ’n’ Eily, ’n’ Larry, one to a time. Scrub ’em ’n’ rinse ’em, or ’t any rate git’s fur’s yer can with ’em, and then I’ll finish ’em off while you do yerself.”

  Sarah Maud couldn’t have scrubbed with any more decision and force if she had been doing floors, and the little Ruggleses bore it bravely, not from natural heroism, but for the joy that was set before them. Not being satisfied, however, with the “tone” of their complexions, and feeling that the number of freckles to the square inch was too many to be tolerated in the highest social circles, she wound up operations by applying a little Bristol brick from the knife-board, which served as the proverbial “last straw,” from under which the little Ruggleses issued rather red and raw and out of temper. When the clock struck four they were all clothed, and most of them in their right minds, ready for those last touches that always take the most time.

  Kitty’s red hair was curled in thirty-four ringlets, Sarah Maud’s was braided in one pig-tail, and Susan’s and Eily’s in two braids apiece, while Peoria’s resisted all advances in the shape of hair oils and stuck out straight on all sides, like that of the Circassian girl of the circus—so Clem said; and he was sent into the bedroom for it, too, from whence he was dragged out forgivingly, by Peoria herself, five minutes later. Then, exciting moment, came linen collars for some and neckties and bows for others—a magnificent green glass breastpin was sewed into Peter’s purple necktie—and Eureka! the Ruggleses were dressed, and Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these!

  A row of seats was then formed directly through the middle of the kitchen. Of course, there were not quite chairs enough for ten, since the family had rarely wanted to sit down all at once, somebody always being out or in bed, or otherwise engaged, but the wood-box and the coal-hod finished out the line nicely, and nobody thought of grumbling. The children took their places according to age, Sarah Maud at the head and Larry on the coal-hod, and Mrs. Ruggles seated herself in front, surveying them proudly as she wiped the sweat of honest toil from her brow.

  “Well,” she exclaimed, “if I do say so as shouldn’t, I never see a cleaner, more stylish mess o’ childern in my life! I do wish Ruggles could look at ye for a minute!—Larry Ruggles, how many times have I got ter tell yer not ter keep pullin’ at yer sash? Haven’t I told yer if it comes ontied, yer waist ’n’ skirt’ll part comp’ny in the middle, ’n’ then where’ll yer be?—Now look me in the eye, all of yer! I’ve of’en told yer what kind of a family the McGrills was. I’ve got reason to be proud, goodness knows! Your uncle is on the police force o’ New York city; you can take up the paper most any day an’ see his name printed right out—James McGrill—’n’ I can’t have my children fetched up common, like some folks’; when they go out they’ve got to have clo’es, and learn to act decent! Now I want ter see how yer goin’ to behave when yer git there tonight. ’Tain’t so awful easy as you think ’tis. Let’s start in at the beginnin’ ’n’ act out the whole business. Pile into the bedroom, there, every last one o’ ye, ’n’ show me how yer goin’ to go int’ the parlor. This’ll be the parlor, ’n’ I’ll be Mis’ Bird.”

  The youngsters hustled into the next room in high glee, and Mrs. Ruggles drew herself up in the chair with an infinitely haughty and purse-proud expression that much better suited a descendant of the McGrills than modest Mrs. Bird.

  The bedroom was small, and there presently ensued such a clatter that you would have thought a herd of wild cattle had broken loose. The door opened, and they straggled in, all the younger ones giggling, with Sarah Maud at the head, looking as if she had been caught in the act of stealing sh
eep; while Larry, being last in line, seemed to think the door a sort of gate of heaven which would be shut in his face if he didn’t get there in time; accordingly he struggled ahead of his elders and disgraced himself by tumbling in head foremost.

  Mrs. Ruggles looked severe. “There, I knew yer’d do it in some sech fool way! Now go in there and try it over again, every last one o’ ye, ’n’ if Larry can’t come in on two legs he can stay ter home—d’ yer hear?”

  The matter began to assume a graver aspect; the little Ruggleses stopped giggling and backed into the bedroom, issuing presently with lock step, Indian file, a scared and hunted expression on every countenance.

  “No, no, no!” cried Mrs. Ruggles, in despair. “That’s worse yet; yer look for all the world like a gang o’ pris’ners! There ain’t no style ter that: spread out more, can’t yer, ’n’ act kind o’ careless-like—nobody’s goin’ ter kill ye! That ain’t what a dinner-party is!”

  The third time brought deserved success, and the pupils took their seats in the row. “Now, yer know,” said Mrs. Ruggles impressively, “there ain’t enough decent hats to go round, ’n’ if there was I don’ know’s I’d let yer wear ’em, for the boys would never think to take ’em off when they got inside, for they never do—but anyhow, there ain’t enough good ones. Now, look me in the eye. You’re only goin’ jest round the corner; you needn’t wear no hats, none of yer, ’n’ when yer get int’ the parlor, ’n’ they ask yer ter lay off yer hats, Sarah Maud must speak up ’n’ say it was sech a pleasant evenin’ ’n’ sech a short walk that yer left yer hats to home. Now, can yer remember?”

  All the little Ruggleses shouted, “Yes, marm!” in chorus.

  “What have you got ter do with it?” demanded their mother; “did I tell you to say it? Warn’t I talkin’ ter Sarah Maud?”

  The little Ruggleses hung their diminished heads. “Yes, marm,” they piped, more discreetly.